


The Tail Of The Dragon

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhaelle, daughter of the king, will do anything to ensure the realm is set on the right path. It is something bred in her bones, in the same way ice runs strong in the veins of her betrothed. Woodswitch or not, she will have her promised prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jets, Amesthists And Opals

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaelle smiled sadly at the other woman. "Love is a sweet song, pleasant to listen to but not for the faint of heart." She held out a handkerchief, the pristine material almost obscene in its joyful colour. Jenny took it nonetheless and wiped her tears away deftly. In those gestures, Rhaelle thought she saw something of herself, a certain refusal to be cowed, to be defeated.

Yet it was her duty to win the match. "My brother has his duties and you would do well not to keep him from them." Her reasoning seemed not to impress the audience. “You would wish him to forever live with this guilt you are placing on his shoulders? We took you in in good faith. And this is how you repay us.”

“I love him. What is wrong with that?” Jenny protested, looking at Rhaelle with tears shining in her doe-eyes. “What guilt can love possibly carry?”

“This is not a matter of guilt,” the Princess supplied. “I do not blame your love, Jenny. Love him as you will, become his mistress if you cannot be parted from him, but do not create chaos in the realm. You know very well that Lord Baratheon will not take such a slight lying down.”

Jenny nodded miserably. “I cannot be his mistress.” Of course, that Rhaelle hadn’t truly considered. “I know it is selfish, but I won’t share him.”

“You would rather lose him, then?” Not something unforeseeable. Jenny had a pride to her that many would find fault with. Rhaelle watched as her companion gave a sharp nod. “Then you must be aware that you cannot remain here any longer. If you do, my brother would be swayed by you.”

The whole weight of the world seemed to rest upon her shoulder in that moment. Rhaelle could not help but take pity on the poor distraught creature. She held the other's hand in a gentle manner. "It is for the best."

“Indeed, but whose?” The questioned startled the Princess, enough to make her drop Jenny’s hand. “I do understand, truly I do. But you are asking me to rip out my very heart. Isn’t that unfair?”

The realm needed peace in order to thrive. And if they were to have peace, her brother had to wed Argelle Baratheon. Jenny had not grown with the notion that everything she did had to be for the best of the realm. It was understandable that she would put herself first; Rhaelle sometimes wished she had such good fortune.

“It is.” There was no point in denying it. “But fairness is not truly the issue here.” The song was coming to an end and unfortunately it wasn’t one of those which produced any joy. But there was nothing else to be done. If it was one of those sad songs, Rhaelle reckoned, then at the very least it could be properly cathartic. “You know what you must do, do you not?”

“How could I not?” The woman stood to her feet. “May I have your ornamental knife, Your Grace?”

Hesitantly, Rhaelle handed her the knife. Jenny took hold of her long blond hair, bringing it all to spill over one shoulder, to her front. The red hues played together upon the blue of her dress. “I will no longer be alive after this. Your Grace, nothing but death may part me from my Prince, and if death is required of me to protect him, then I shall die.” And the knife cut through the rivers of red, cropping locks.

Rhaelle watched the hair fall to the ground, a sliver of regret upon her lips. “Then go in peace.” It was her turn to stand. “May the Seven keep you, Jenny of Oldstones.”

And may the Seven forgive the rest of them. Rhaelle left her brother’s lover there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Duncan grip on her shoulder was bruising. “Where is she?” Rhaelle kept her silence, unwilling and wholly unprepared to give him any answers. “Rhaelle!”

“Duncan,” she offered helplessly. It was no easy task, shaking his hold away, not when he was unwilling to let her go. His eyes bore into hers, cutting, mean, yet all the same pleading. “My lips are sealed. You know very well I cannot speak of it.”

“If you love me, if there was ever a moment in which you loved me, then, sister, I beg you, for the love you bear me, tell me.” It wasn’t fair. Yet fairness, as she was already aware, was not the issue.

“I love you and that is exactly why I shan’t speak a word of it.” She couldn’t bring about such an end. She simply couldn’t. “Best you forget she ever existed.”

 

“Rhaelle,” Duncan pleaded. But the second time around she shook his hold away and stepped away from him. “Haven’t you a shred of pity, of decency, of understanding?”

“Nay.” It was better that he think her the monster. If that helped him any, then she was willing to be the shadow, the bearer of bad news, the Stranger even.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aegon gave his daughter a long look. “You cannot be as surprised as you seem. Surely, you knew my meaning when I called for you.”

"The North? I am to secure the North?" Rhaelle blinked slowly. She was no Rhaenys, nor any sort of Visenya. She was Rhaelle, quiet, demure, with just a hint of mischief and a will of iron. But that did not make her a conqueror, nor even a woman who attracted men. "How shall I do that, father mine? To the best of my knowledge, Lord Stark is wedded."

And quite happily too from what she’d heard. If her father did not plan to wed her to a lord, then that would lower her own standing. Sacrifices had to be made, but surely not to that point.

"You are to wed Errold Stark, my daughter." Rhaelle considered those words for a few moments. He was brother to the current Lord Stark, a minor lord with a grand name, if anything. But still a lord, and perhaps it would have to do. The King, however, had more to say. "He is a capable man, willing to serve the Crown. We need the North, Rhaelle."

Indeed, if they were to oppose the schemes of those closer home, they would need the support of a large power base and a name steeped in tradition. Lyonel Baratheon was a dangerous man. It paid to be well prepared in any case.

That rather perfect piece of understanding prompted Rhaelle to nod her head. "What a pity it is that you were not born a man. You would have made a great king."

Alas the fates had made her a woman. Rhaelle simply shrugged. She had never wished to be a ruler. “I want a family of my own, father. Children and grandchildren to trail after me; what is a crown to that?”

“What a smart creature.” Aegon laughed. “Very well, then I shall take it that you are in agreement with me.”

After all she had done, how could she possibly not be in agreement with him on the move? There was no other choice. “Of course, father.” And so it was that first step was taken by one Rhaelle Targaryen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Argelle Baratheon beamed at Princess Sarella Martell and at Princess Rhaelle. "I was so very glad when father brought news that the engagement was to end in a wedding after all," she spoke, fiddling with a piece of midnight black hair. Her blue eyes sparkled with joy. "Prince Duncan is truly the best man that the Seven have ever made."

Children with dreams in their head, Rhaelle thought, carefully pasting a smile upon her lips, though it did not mirror what she truly felt. "Lady Baratheon has such faith in my brother. I pray you will be very happy with Duncan."

"Your Grace is kind," Argelle offered, taking one of Rhaelle's hands in her own. "I've dreamed about this, calling you my good-sister, ever since the betrothal was announced. I have yet to repay you properly for speaking to His Majesty on my behalf."

Rhaelle looked at her lap, suddenly uncomfortable. It had been she to propose Argelle for her brother's match initially, because, meeting Lord Baratheon's daughter on a tour to Storm's End, she had been pleasantly impressed by her manner. "There is no need, my lady." How she regretted it. It would have been better to keep her mouth shut and look the other way.

"You are too modest," Sarella said. "Her Grace might have given you that slight push, but it is your own charm that won the Prince over in the end." The youngest of them, Sarella Martell was the sole heir of Prince Nymor Martell. When he died, she would become a ruling Princess.

Like most members of House Martell, she was lean of built and dark of skin, with curling jet black ringlets and the darkest eyes Rhaelle had ever seen. She also had that fiery temper the Dornish loved so well. It came as little surprise then that she had married as young as she had. But five-and-ten and she was already a wife.

At seven-and-ten, Rhaelle herself was barely betrothed and Argelle at nine-and-ten was just at this point wedding. It felt a bit strange, to be sure.

"My brother is a sensible sort," Rhaelle intervened, "but have some patience with him, my lady, and you shall get along as fine as many others."

"Oh, but I do wish he had come to greet me, Your Grace. I've yet to see him and it has been some time since my arrival," Argelle pouted.

"His Majesty won't leave my brother alone even at this important time. He will come, my lady, rest assured," the Targaryen Princess promised. It was all she could do not to sit up and run away from the two.

Likely as not, father was still trying to convince Duncan to come greet his future bride. She could only hope he succeeded. Else, trouble would follow. What an unlucky creature she was, to have caused such mischief without even meaning to.

"There is a rumour going around, Your Grace," the Dornishwoman started, distracting Rhaelle from her thoughts. "A little bird has told me that we shall soon be delighted with another splendid match. Your Grace, what a sly thing you are, to be wedding and not saying a thing."

"What mean you?" Rhaelle's fingers twisted in the thick material of her skirts, the Myrish lace straining under the sudden pressure. Who could have possibly told them?

"You mean to say you are not wedding into House Stark?" Sarella countered, mischief shining in her dark eyes.

"Truly? You are to wed so far from home?" Argelle asked. "That is not well at all, Your Grace. How am I to get on here all alone?'

"My lady, Your Grace," the Princess of the realm held one hand up, "there is no certainty in such rumours. Father would indeed like to negotiate such a betrothal, but as of yet there has been no reply from Lord Stark."

It could be no other than one of her maids, Rhaelle decided. Those girls had nothing better to do all day than listen at doors and spread rumours. Yet she was at peace with her reply. There was, indeed, little certainty about her wedding Errold Stark. The reply would come soon, of course. Until then, however, she was free to feign ignorance and bashfulness upon the matter.

"But if indeed it proves true, what shall you do?" Argelle insisted. "The North is so far away. And it is awfully cold. You weren't made for such harsh climate."

"I daresay that I shan't be too put out about a little snow," Rhaelle laughed good-naturedly. "It'll be a nice change from King's Landing. The North is quieter from what I've heard."

"Aye, but they pray to trees there and often starve in winter. Surely Your Grace cannot be glad for such a future," Sarella pointed out, fixing herself in the position of voice of reason.

There were times when the harvest was poor, that could not be denied. But even so, Rhaelle was certain that if anyone starved, then it was mot the noblemen. She gave a shrug of her shoulders and took a sip of her wine. The liquid slid down her throat. Rhaelle placed the cup down with a decisive clink. "I cannot remain a maiden in my father's home forever. Be it with a lord of House Stark or any other, I am of a mind to wed and have children of my own. I have waited long enough. And now father is willing to grant my wish."

"Isn't it too little, though?" Sarella mused. "You never even mentioned status, or wealth. Children can be had with any man. But you must choose someone of appropriate rank. Lord Stark is wedded. That would mean it would only be one of his brothers he could offer, unless he would willingly put aside his wife."

"You are too crafty," Rhaelle chided in the gentlest manner. "But I know my mind better than anyone else and I say that even the brother of a lord shall do." It would be her penitence, the drop in rank.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Betha sat down next to her son, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know your heart, my child. How could I not, for I birthed you? I know your thoughts and I know your struggles. You are unhappy and it seems that the world is coming to an end." She did not need a nod or any sort of confirmation. "You loved her, that wild girl, but she is not for you."

"You should have just allowed me to give up my right." Her heart squeezed painfully at his words. "Jenny was all I ever wanted, mother. A crown means nothing. Only a fool would think otherwise."

"Duncan, you cannot allow this sorrow to rule you." She brushed back a strand of hair, tucking it behind his ear. "Jenny is no longer here. She understood better than you the needs of the realm. If you shan't do it for your family, then do it for her sacrifice. Honour her."

"She would not have left if you hadn't made her." There was wrath in his voice and anguish. "Do you truly think, mother, that I can ever forgive you this? That I would? You do not understand, nor have you any right to speak to me of honouring her sacrifice. You wedded the man you loved."

"Your father was not the Crown Prince when he took me to wife." And that was the crux of the matter. "Whatever you think of us, Duncan, you are our son. And we love you. Were it possible, I would have gladly taken Jenny in as my good-daughter. But it was no to be."

Duncan pulled away from her, jerkily climbing to his feet. "I have no wish to hear excuses. In wed Argelle Baratheon because I have no choice. But listen to my words, mother. I shall never love her, nor will I allow her to entertain any illusion of affection. She will be the Crown Princess as is her wish and I shall make her pay the cost of it."

Standing as well, Betha walked to one of the high windows. "You would ruin the marriage before it even begins. It is a dangerous choice. I cannot ask you to change your heart, my son. Yet I do not wish you so joyless. Argelle Baratheon is a good woman."

"She can be the Maiden herself. But she is not Jenny." This fixation of his upon Jenny of Oldstones had begun making the Queen weary. "I will hear no more on this matter, mother."

It felt rather like a kick. Betha took a long breath. Her throat was burning with the effort of keeping in her disappointment. She had known his love for the girl was strong. Yet she had chosen to tear them apart. What else could she have done? "Very well, Duncan. Pray go and greet your future bride. We would not wish to give her cause for complaint."

"Nay, of course we would not," her son sneered. He threw her a dark look before marching out the door, leaving her alone.

Betha took a few moments to compose herself, She wiped away the moisture from her eyes and took a few calming breaths. She gathered her shawl around her shoulders and gave one last look towards the messy bed her son had been lying in.

It was all for the good of the realm, the woman told herself. Yet queen and mother were at loggerheads. The queen knew that had to be done, that the Crown Prince had to wed Argelle Baratheon, but the mother, creature with a soft heart that she was, wished her son to be joyful. The mother wanted to go back upon the decision that had been made.

That could not be though. Argelle would become Duncan's wife and someday she would be queen as well, the Seven be willing. It was the only thing to be done. No matter what her son believed, they were doing it for his own good. He would be King and he would need a Queen to match him. Argelle Baratheon was as good a candidate as could be. She came from a wealthy house with a great name, her lineage was appropriate and her chances of giving Duncan an heir high. It was all one could possibly ask for.

But if so, why did she feel disappointment welling up inside her breast? Betha shook her head, hoping to dislodge the feeling. Nay, what was done was done. It was time to look towards the future.

She left Duncan's bedchamber, making her way through Maegor's holdfast to her husband's solar. Lord Stark had promised them a quick reply to their proposal and it had come the time to see if any raven had arrived. The Queen was allowed to pass without even the hint of movement from the Kingsguards and in she went.

As expected, Aegon was sitting at his desk, eyes busy and hands busier even. He barely even acknowledged her arrival. Betha sat down in a chair and waited patiently for him to take note of her presence. There were times when she deeply regretted that they hadn't been able to remain as they were when younger, without worry.

But times had changed. And so had they.

Her husband looked up and seeing her seated offered a smile. "I see my Queen has arrived. You have missed me so much that you could not wait until supper to see me?"

"Not I, Your Majesty," she laughed. "I am here for my daughter."

"Apologies, my dear, which daughter?" His jest elicited a smile from her.

"I haven't so many," Betha said at a long last. "Has Lord Stark written?"

Aegon set about searching his desk, pushing papers away and nearly knocking over the inkwell. But he did find what he was looking for. Holding it towards her, Aegon offered his wife a slip of paper upon which, presumably, was the Wolf's answer. It read simply, _I agree._

"There you have it, my Queen." Aegon stood to his feet. "It is time we let Rhaelle know."

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Half Moon

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sarella rested her head on her palm, elbow still pressing into the feather mattress. "But you do not truly wish to do it." She had been making her point for quite some time. It all came back to what Rhaelle desired. Of her future. Of the marriage planned for her. Of Errold Stark even. It remained, however, that she ignored the fundamentally opposing nature of the matter. "Tell the King to find another bride for the North. And if he does not listen come with me to Dorne."

Sarella was one of those individuals, Rhaelle considered, who were ultimately under the effects of truly good fortune. But her story was one of many, lost in a sea. And soon she would he thrown into obscurity. Like the rest of them. In such circumstances the choice could only effect that great a chance. The decision had little enough to do with the desire her companion invoked. Or rather with that specific brand of desire. Nay, indeed, the matter stood as choice between hardship, for only a fool might think a possible refusal on her part would be met with calm, and ease of progress. That was, her capacity to work within the given system.

"You will still be royalty," Sarella continued. "And you could have everything you ever wanted." And therein the problem resided. Rhaelle opened her eyes. She turned her face towards the Dornismwoman. "You do not agree?"

"I am not and have never been unsure of my place in the world." The curt answer gave the other a start. “You mean well."

"Patronising," Sarella scoffed. She fell back, her head hitting the pillow. Her lips curled nonetheless, the sort of smile implying she knew something she did not. Might be she did. "I do not know why I try."

Neither did Rhaelle. They never had seen eye to eye on such matters. She supposed it to be her own fault. After all, obstinacy ran strong in the family. "You've little else to do in the middle of the night before a wedding." She closed her eyes once more and tried to push herself into considering Sarella's suggestion. A life in Dorne. She could hardly fathom it. No matter how hard she tried, her mind shied away from it.

"You might be on to something." The mattress dipped and rose with the Dornishwoman's movements. "Do you not fear he might run off into the night? The Seven know he's not been too pleased, that brother of yours."

"He will learn," she answered softly, not bothering to give aught else by way of explanation. Rhaelle did not imagine it might happen truly soon. Her brother was still licking his wounds, coming to terms with the tragedy of life. She could only hope he might come to appreciate the beauty of it all well.

The trouble with living entirely for another was that purpose was placed in an arena of uncertainty. Like Duncan's Jenny; how could anyone suspect the situation would turn out any differently?

Bards mourned the emptiness of a life with no such purpose. They went as far as to place upon the pedestal of desirability the forbidden affairs of the heart, lauded as acts of true courage. At which point Rhaelle had to stop and wonder why they should do so. It made for wonderful stories, but very little value outside the parchment they were written upon and outside the halls of lords.

"How certain you are. I shall eagerly await the outcome." And so she should. It could only benefit her.

"Ingratiate yourself as best you can," Rhaelle offered. "On his good days, Duncan can and does lend an ear to the troubles of others." He could at other times be truly self-centred. "I thought I was clear about my stance."

Might be much too clear by the sound her companion made. Rhaelle did not dignify the reaction with an answer. Instead she stretched out and turned her back on Sarella, feigning sleepiness. She could hardly explain to the other why it was that her stomach squeezed as tightly as it did. It did no good to attempt such a conversation. She and Sarella lived two very different lives. That they espoused divergent views came as no surprise. Rather it left Rhaelle strangely stranded.

A ridiculous notion. The corners of her mouth dropped slightly. “I do so enjoy your manner of conversing.” Her companion shifted, her knee pressing into her own back, pain erupting beneath the thin layer of flesh. “Your Grace.” The pressure lifted. The pain eased. “I shall find a time and day to pay you back.”

Neither did that elicit a response from her. She simply lied there, contended to wait for the moment. The day was long to come. And she had years to wait it out, did she not?

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I found my signature. I'm pretty happy with it. Lol.


End file.
